By the Sword rj-12 Page 3

"What's it mean?"

  "No time. But I can tell you it's a lure of sorts. Taints respond to it. They see it on the cover of his book and the Otherness within them reaches for it. They can't get it out of their heads, so they tattoo it on their skin and paint it on walls. And they are drawn to others who feel the same way. This Thompson has no idea what he's tapped into."

  He slipped his arm free and started for the door.

  "Just one more thing," Jack said. "What would be the purpose of creating a super-tainted child?"

  Veilleur stopped and turned. "Super tainted?"

  "Yeah. Back in the seventies a guy went to a lot of trouble to father heavily tainted children to mate and produce a super-tainted child."

  "Did he succeed?"

  "Don't know. The child hasn't been born yet and I don't know where its mother is. But I'm sure you've seen her picture."

  He frowned. "She wouldn't be the one on those ubiquitous flyers, would she?"

  "You got it."

  "And she's carrying a super-tainted fetus?"

  "Could be—no one knows what the child's made of yet."

  "Do you know the name of the man who did this?"

  "Started it all? That would be her grandfather—Jonah Stevens. Or so I've been told."

  Jack wasn't sure what to believe anymore.

  Veilleur's eyes widened. "Really. Jonah Stevens. That's very… interesting."

  Then he turned and left Julio's.

  4

  "The katana! It is near! It awaits!"

  Toru Akechi started at the high-pitched wail. He hadn't been expecting it so soon.

  Through the eyeholes of his silk mask he watched the legless monk, naked but for his mask and fundoshi, writhing on the rumpled futon in the Sighting room. He had drunk the Sighting elixir twenty minutes ago and it was starting to take effect.

  The windows to the Sighting room had been sealed during the old building's renovation. The darkness was virtually complete but for the glow of the four candles placed at the corners of the futon, wanly limning the dozen figures, robed and hooded in dark blue, encircling the Seer. Some of those figures stood, some sat, and the ones without limbs lay on the floor.

  Toru knew them all by the designs on their silk masks and the shapes of their bodies. Some were missing limbs, showed empty sockets through their masks. Those lacking ears and tongues and noses were less obvious.

  With his arms jerking back and forth, his torso twisting, the Seer appeared to be suffering an agony of sorts. His empty eye sockets could offer no sign of pain or distress, but his body gave full testament. Suddenly he lay still. All present held their breath, listening.

  And then the Seer sat up and swiveled his masked, eyeless face back and forth. Toru knew he wasn't seeing the Sighting room. He was seeing somewhere, somewhen else.

  "The katana!" he wailed. "It is near! It awaits!"

  We know all about the missing sword, Toru wanted to scream. You told us during the last sighting and the sighting before that. Say something new.

  "It waits where, my brother?" he said in an even tone.

  "Here! In this city! I see it!"

  "Where do you see it?"

  "In a dark place!"

  "And where is this dark place?"

  "Here! In this city!"

  Toru ground his teeth as the Seer went on, presenting nothing new.

  "The sacred scrolls! They have returned to our Order! But that is not enough! The katana! The Order must possess the katana that once sealed its doom! When the Order controls the katana, it will control its future, and its future will be assured for a thousand years!"

  "Will we succeed?" Toru asked, as he always did.

  "Only if we persevere!"

  All eyes in the room turned toward him. He had been assigned the task of finding the sacred scrolls, stolen from their Order—the Kakureta Kao—in the last days of World II, plus the katana that had destroyed the Order by fulfilling a prophecy of doom.

  He had succeeded in finding the scrolls, but the katana eluded him, slipping through his fingers. He now had a plan in motion to secure it.

  "If the Order does not control the katana," the Seer screamed, "it will again destroy us! It will slay the last surviving member!"

  Toru swallowed. The last surviving member… the Seer was talking about the death of everyone in this room, in this building. No equivocation there. They were all going to die if they didn't find and hold that benighted blade.

  "The Order came to this place to destroy this city! And the sacred scrolls will provide the Order with the means to do so!"

  Yes, they would. Toru had his students scouring the city for the ingredients to create a Kuroikaze—a Black Wind.

  "But the Order will itself be destroyed if it does not possess the katana!" He turned his sightless sockets on Toru and pounded the futon. "The katana! The katana!"

  Toru's fellow monks, all still staring at him, took up the chant.

  "THE KATANA! THE KATANA! THE KATANA!…"

  5

  Jack watched the door swing closed behind Veilleur. He could follow him, but to what end? Force his way into his home and quiz him while he tended to his sick wife—assuming he really had a sick wife.

  Nah. The guy wanted contact—had initiated it. He'd be back. Meanwhile, Jack had a lot to digest.

  Like the Kicker Man, for instance.

  … it's a lure of sorts. Taints respond to it…

  He remembered the first time he'd seen the figure—in Dr. Buhmann's while standing next to the stroked-out professor. Remembered the odd twinge of familiarity it triggered, and the feeling that something long dormant within had stirred.

  But he hadn't noticed any desire for a Kicker Man tattoo, or a compulsion to grab a can of spray paint and start tagging walls.

  Maybe because his Taint was, as Veilleur had said, compartmentalized.

  The Taint… where had it come from? The Otherness, sure, but how had it seeped into humanity's bloodstream?

  But the biggest surprise of the night had been meeting Glaeken, the man whose shoes he might have to step into—would definitely have to step into if Rasalom made his move.

  Glaeken and Rasalom… two ancient enemies, each thousands of years old… Jack had met both now, and felt like a punk… far, far out of their league.

  Rasalom… looked as human as the next guy until he lowered his guard and allowed a peek into his eyes—twin black holes of hunger with no hint of mercy or regard. Total self-absorption.

  Glaeken—better get used to calling him Veilleur—was still a man, a regular guy. Or at least he seemed to be. Thousands of years old, yet hurrying home to his sick wife—the first wife he'd grown old with. Was that why she was so precious to him?

  Jack had never felt further out of his depth.

  At least he'd been able to tell Veilleur something he didn't already know—he'd seemed genuinely surprised to hear the name Jonah Stevens. Seemed to have recognized it.

  But Jack was more interested in Jonah Stevens's granddaughter and great-grandchild—Dawn Pickering and the unborn, super-tainted baby she carried.

  Almost a month now since Dawn had disappeared. Where the hell could she be? Her mother was dead, she had no family. Hank Thompson and his Kickers were looking for her too, and the fresh posters with Dawn's picture going up almost daily, asking HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? were proof of sorts that they'd yet to find her.

  Which meant she had to be hiding. But where?

  Jack had met her once, and then only for a minute or so when he'd handed her an envelope while pretending to be a delivery man. A slightly overweight, seemingly natural blonde with a round face and puggish nose, not a wowzer but not a bowzer either. Good grades, accepted to Colgate, but it seemed unlikely she'd be going if she didn't finish her senior year of high school.

  Eighteen years old and alone and pregnant in the city. Or maybe not in the city. Her Jeep was gone too, so she could be anywhere.

  Jack assumed officialdom was looking for her as well. After all
, her mother's death was a suspected murder, and with both her and her boyfriend—more like manfriend—Jerry Bethlehem pulling a disappearing act, the hunt would be on.

  Except she wasn't with Jerry, she was hiding from him. Someone needed to get word to her that the father of her baby, the man she'd known as Jerry Bethlehem, was dead, thanks to Jack. But the irony of it all was he'd done it in a way that had left the man with little or none of his skin, thus virtually ensuring that he'd never be identified.

  But being the object of a manhunt—womanhunt?—meant Dawn couldn't use her credit or ATM cards without leaving a financial trail.

  So where was she? Jack hated the thought of her sleeping in her Jeep, or staying in some flop motel until her cash ran out.

  Poor kid.

  6

  Dawn closed her eyes and totally luxuriated in the caress of the bubbles as they rose through the hot tub's steaming water.

  Extending her legs, she let herself float to the surface and peeked at her body. Not bad for almost two months pregnant. You'd never know. Those weeks of morning sickness had had a silver lining: She'd dropped some of her blubber. Much of her blubber, in fact. Check out that flat ab—well, almost flat—and those sleek thighs. They didn't do total justice to the flowered Shan bikini, but didn't totally insult it.

  She raised her head and gazed through the green-tinted glass walls at the towers of the El Dorado building over on Central Park West. She wished she were farther downtown where she could be looking at the Ghostbusters building, or maybe at the Dakota, but she'd be like a total dumbass to complain about this view. Below, out of sight at this angle, lay Central Park.

  The bubbler cycled off as it hit the twenty-minute mark. As Dawn reached over to reset it, she heard the gym door open behind her. She sighed. She knew who it was.

  Gilda.

  Right on time, carrying a white terrycloth robe.

  Did she have her own timer? Or was she like a dog and the bubbler signal was like the sound of a can opener? No matter where she was, did she hear it and hurry over?

  "Did miss enjoy her soak?" she said in her accented English.

  She came from somewhere in Eastern Europe but Dawn had totally forgotten where. Thick-bodied, graying, bunned-up hair, dark eyes, and a gaptoothy smile.

  "I was just beginning to. I could stay here for hours."

  "Tut-tut-tut. You know the rules, you can read the signs: Twenty minutes is all you are allowed."

  "But another five minutes—"

  "Any longer might hurt your baby."

  "It's not a baby—it's a thing inside me and I want it out. Can't anybody here get that through their heads?"

  "The Master said—"

  "It's not his body, it's mine, and I want it back. Totally."

  Gilda held up the robe by the collar and jiggled it. "Come-come. I bring your nice soft robe. I will help you." Another jiggle. "Come."

  Pissed, Dawn rose and stepped over the edge of the tub. She noticed Gilda giving her wet body a careful up-and-down. Looking for signs of pregnancy? Or just… looking. As a housekeeper, Gilda seemed totally efficient and not a bad cook either. Totally no-nonsense but always cheerful. Seemed devoted to her job, but every so often Dawn would catch her looking at her in a way that she found just plain creepy.

  She slipped her arms into the robe—God, it had to be an inch thick—and folded it around her. As she knotted the belt she stepped to the glass wall and stared down at Jackie-O Lake.

  "Why do you call him Master?"

  "Because he is the Master of the house."

  Yes, but—"

  "And because he wishes us to."

  That didn't surprise Dawn. Mr. Osala had a commanding air, like he was totally used to being in charge. But hearing him called "the Master" all the time made her feel like she was in Dracula's castle or something. All he needed was a red-lined cape.

  The Master this, the Master that…

  Screw the Master.

  Who was he, anyway? He said he'd been hired by her mom before she died—hired to protect her from Jerry—or Jerome, as Mr. Osala had called him on the night he'd interrupted her planned dive off the Queensboro Bridge.

  That had been a bad time—the low point of her life. Mom dead, killed by Jerry who'd tried to make it look like a suicide.

  A lump rose in her throat as she thought about it. Her fault. If she hadn't got involved with that creep, whatever his real name was.

  Nowadays Mr. Osala just called him Bethlehem.

  Mr. Osala didn't seem to have a first name, at least not one that he used, but he was rich, no doubt about that. A Fifth Avenue duplex with its own penthouse health club. No way Dawn could complain about her treatment here. She had a bedroom with a breathtaking view of Central Park. She could order totally anything she wanted to eat, and if Gilda couldn't make it, they'd have it delivered. Anything she wanted she got. She'd asked for a swimsuit for the pool and hot tub, and a few hours later this Shan bikini arrived—just her size. Yeah, she could have anything she wanted.

  Except an abortion.

  And a walk outside.

  She so wanted to get out of here, even if only for an hour or so, but Mr. Osala—the fucking Master—said no. Too risky.

  Who was he anyway to tell her what to do? Just because Mom hired him as some sort of bodyguard didn't mean Dawn had to listen to him. Trouble was, she had no choice. He had key-only deadbolts on the doors and wouldn't let her out. Too dangerous, he said.

  Like being in prison. Okay, maybe that was pushing it. More like a birdcage—velvet lined, with solid gold bars, but a cage just the same.

  "I need to get out of here," she said to no one in particular.

  "Oh, but miss, you can't. That man might see you."

  That man…

  Jerry Bethlehem, or whatever his real name was. Yeah, Jerry was out there looking for her. Looking real hard, she'd bet. Totally. Because he wanted his kid—wanted it like crazy. Insanely.

  The Key to the Future, he'd called it.

  Mr. Osala's reasoning was that as long as she remained pregnant, she'd be safe from harm by Jerry, because hurting her could hurt his child. But if he ever caught up to her and learned she'd had an abortion, her life wouldn't be worth two cents.

  Last month she'd wanted to die, had been ready to jump off a bridge. That had passed. Now she wanted to live, but this wasn't the kind of living she had in mind.

  Mr. Osala didn't seem to want anything from her beyond cooperation in keeping safe. She wound up with proof of that when she told him she'd left her Jeep parked in a garage near the 59th Street Bridge. He'd taken her ticket and "relocated it to a safer place."

  And then he'd handed her an envelope containing a quarter of a million dollars.

  Her quarter mil. Or rather her mom's.

  Either Mr. Osala was so honest that he wasn't tempted by any amount of money, or so totally rich that a quarter mil was pocket change. Or both.

  Fine. But what good was any amount of money if she wasn't allowed to spend it?

  "Jerry's one man and there's a zillion people in this city. What are the chances of the two of us running into each other? Like almost totally zero."

  "But you have everything here." Gilda pointed through the glass at the rooftop garden. "You have trees and flowers right outside."

  "How about shopping? I want to go shopping."

  "Why? Anything you want, you have only to ask and it is brought to you."

  She turned and faced Gilda. Didn't she get it?

  "I'm talking about shopping—s-h-o-p-p-i-n-g. You know: walking up and down aisles, looking at things, touching things, trying stuff on. Shopping."

  Gilda looked genuinely puzzled. "I do not understand. Why should you want to go out when everything can be brought in?"

  A scream rose in Dawn's throat. She started to suppress it, then figured, what the hell, let it all out.

  And she did—a formless screech that echoed off the glass walls.

  Gilda paled and backed up a step.


  "Miss—?"

  Dawn kept the volume cranked up. "I'm going crazy here! Can't you see that? If I don't get out for a while I'm going to climb that fence out there and jump off!"

  Gilda backed up another step. "I'll get Henry."

  "Get your fucking Master!"

  "He's away, searching for your Mister Bethlehem. Henry will know what to do."

  As Dawn watched her bustle off, she thought, Probably thinks I'm a spoiled brat.

  But she wasn't. Mom had seen to that. Even went so far as to make her get a job waiting tables in the Tower Diner. Not a bad job, and the tips had been decent. Mom never would have stood for a tantrum like the one she'd just thrown.

  Her throat tightened, her eyes filled. Aw, Mom. Why didn't I listen to you? Why didn't I appreciate you while you were here? I miss you.

  She swallowed and blinked back the tears. Had to stay tough. Spoiled brats didn't whimper, they screamed and threw tantrums. And if that was what it took to get somebody to listen around here, then this place was about to become Tantrum City.

  Totally.

  7

  "Gilda tells me there's a problem, miss?"

  Dawn looked up and saw Henry standing in the entry to the great room. As usual, he wore his chauffeur's black livery. Reed thin with a tall frame—six-four if an inch—that made him look even thinner. His angular, dark-eyed, thin-lipped face never smiled, at least not when Dawn was looking. Mr. Osala didn't seem to have a first name; Henry didn't seem to have a last.

  She hadn't changed out of her bikini and robe, electing to sit in the glass-and-chrome great room and wait for Henry to show his face. She'd turned on the gigonda plasma-screen TV and pretended to be watching.

  She rose and faced him. Normally she'd never have the guts to confront someone like this, but she was playing a part now—the bitch brat.

  "I want out of here."

  "I'm afraid that is out of the question." His stiff posture and faint British accent gave him a snooty air, but she heard no hesitation in his voice. "The Master won't allow it."

  "He can't keep me prisoner!"

  "His promise to your mother was to keep you safe, and he is doing so."